


Boeuf Mystère

by galwednesday



Series: Tumblr ficlets 2018 [12]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: AU COLLISION COURSE, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Crack, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, accidental secret identities, alternative universe - food critic, misunderstandings played for humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 18:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15735219
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galwednesday/pseuds/galwednesday
Summary: “Quick question,” Bucky said.Steve looked up, but didn’t stop moving passports and stacks of cash into a nondescript blue duffel, his mind busily ticking through logistics. He’d grab the glock taped behind the hidden drawer in the desk on their way out, and they could buy new clothes once they got across the border into neutral territory, so they didn’t need much else, apart from whatever Bucky wanted to bring. One duffle should be enough. “Yeah, honey?”“What thefuck.”





	Boeuf Mystère

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [神秘牛肉 (Boeuf Mystère)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15955367) by [sashach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sashach/pseuds/sashach)
  * Translation into Русский available: [Boeuf Mystère](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339683) by [Tressa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tressa/pseuds/Tressa)



> So there was [this post](https://galwednesday.tumblr.com/post/177172261733/silentwalrus1-onion-souls-tilthat-til) about Michelin restaurant inspectors that included the sentence "they spend 3 out of every 4 weeks on the road, and must vacate a region for 10 years if they think a restaurant suspects their identity" and a comment by onion-souls reading "Imagine thinking your spouse is a sexy secret agent for decades only to find out he’s a restaurant critic for fat tire boy magazine" so naturally I left these tags:
> 
> #Shrunkyclunks AU where Steve’s a SHIELD agent and Bucky’s a Michelin inspector and they both think they have the same jobs #Bucky: I’m sorry babe they’re onto me we gotta move #Steve: okay honey I got your back *busts open the floor to grab go-bag full of cash and passports and guns* #Bucky: quick question #Bucky: what the fUCK
> 
> ...and then got ambushed with this ficlet the next day. CRACK FIC WEEKEND ROLLS IRREPRESSIBLY ONWARD.

“Quick question,” Bucky said.

Steve looked up, but didn’t stop moving passports and stacks of cash into a nondescript blue duffel, his mind busily ticking through logistics. He’d grab the glock taped behind the hidden drawer in the desk on their way out, and they could buy new clothes once they got across the border into neutral territory, so they didn’t need much else, apart from whatever Bucky wanted to bring. One duffle should be enough. “Yeah, honey?”

“What the _fuck_.”

“What? Oh,” he said, suddenly sheepish, looking at the stack of matching passports, half with Bucky’s face and half with his own. “I mean, you can use your own IDs, of course. I just thought it would be practical to have some with the same surname, so we can travel together more easily.” It might be smarter to separate, since they’d been openly married the whole time they were in France, but the idea of leaving Bucky alone when he might be in danger made Steve want to superglue himself to Bucky’s back, the better to watch it.

“No, back up. What is _that_ ,” Bucky said, pointing at the metal suitcase lying open on a bed of splinters, “and why was it under our _floor_.”

“Uh.” Steve zipped up the duffel and stood. “It’s my go bag?”

Bucky stared at him.

Steve stared back. “You said your cover was blown,” he said, trying to figure out where the disconnect was. “You said we had to move.”

“Yeah, Steve, I meant we should have a conversation about whether you’d rather spend a few years in Spain or Belgium and start talking to realtors about selling the house within the next six months, not--whatever _this_ is,” Bucky said, waving wildly at the floorboards Steve had torn up to get to his go bag, the briefcase spilling currency from five different countries onto the rolled-up carpet, and the duffel Steve was hugging to his chest like a kid clutching a teddy bear.

“That doesn’t seem very safe,” Steve said hesitantly. He’d never outright asked Bucky who he worked for. He never wanted to be responsible for forcing Bucky to choose between conflicting loyalties, and he _knew_ Bucky, mind and body and soul. Bucky wouldn’t work for AIM or HYDRA or any of the organizations hell-bent on destruction and domination. The fact that Steve had never run into Bucky opposite his SHIELD teams on missions had seemed to confirm that. “I mean, the people you’ve...investigated...don’t you think they’ll be mad?”

“Steve,” Bucky said slowly, “what _exactly_ do you think I do?”

“You’re an insurance fraud investigator,” Steve said dutifully. It was a good cover, better than Steve’s “leisure magazine photographer” persona that meant he had to take pictures of sunsets and beaches in between stake-outs so he had something to show for it when he got back. Nobody ever asked Bucky to share the details of his fraud cases when he got back from one of _his_ “business trips.”

“Yeah, okay, but I’m not, and you’ve known that for years. So what do you think I _actually_ do?”

“Well, I don’t know details. Romanian intelligence?” Steve hazarded.

“You think I’m a spy.” Bucky looked again at the mess on the floor, then up at Steve, before smacking his forehead. “You think I’m a spy because _you’re_ a spy. You’re a spy. _Fuck_.”

“I, uh.” Steve set the duffle down behind his legs, like putting it out of sight would make Bucky forget it existed. “Wait, if you’re not an agent and you’re not an insurance investigator, what’s your real job?”

“I’m a _restaurant_ inspector,” Bucky moaned, his hand over his eyes. “I work for Michelin, I write food reviews. It’s all hush-hush, they take secrecy pretty seriously, but there’s no spying involved.”

“Oh,” Steve said, a pit opening in his stomach. They’d had a conversation early on in their relationship where they talked around their jobs while carefully not naming them; it was so hard, they’d agreed, to find partners who were willing to tolerate their demanding jobs, which came with the need to travel on short notice and to keep certain information confidential. They had a whole series of running jokes about having the same job. Steve had thought they were on the same page, and apparently so had Bucky, when in reality they weren’t even in the same _genre_. "You thought I was a restaurant critic?”

“Don’t act like that’s a stretch. You’re always going to fancy resorts, you’re judgmental as hell, and you know a shit ton about good food. You practically write me a love letter every time I feed you!”

“ _You_ love food,” Steve said helplessly, “and I love you. Of course I learned about it.”

“Oh my God,” Bucky said, both hands gripping his hair. “That’s really sweet, babe. We are _so fucking dumb_. Holy shit, no wonder you stay in such good shape and get banged up so often, I _knew_ you didn’t just run into muggers last spring, who gets mugged on a luxury cruise?”

“What about when you smoked my ass at paintball? I thought you were a sniper!”

“I have naturally good aim! I used to play a lot of laser tag! I cannot _believe_ you thought I was some kind of super assassin because I spent my teenage years playing arcade games. Wait, do you have a real gun? Is there a _gun_ in our house?”

“No,” Steve said carefully. There wasn’t _a_ gun in their house. Steve was a big believer in redundancy planning.

Bucky exhaled hard and dragged both hands down his face. “Okay,” he said decisively. “We can talk about how you’re obviously lying later. For now, you’re going to put that shit back under the floor, and I’m going to make us some pasta carbonara, and then I’m going to get hammered, because this has been a very stressful day and neither of us are in a position to really discuss this now. Okay?”

“Okay,” Steve said meekly.

Bucky walked out. Steve swept the splinters into a pile, a coil of apprehension settling into his chest. He’d thought he and Bucky had an understanding, and instead, Steve had been lying to him this whole time, even if it wasn’t intentional. Being involved with a spy was _dangerous_. It wasn’t the kind of commitment covered in the typical marriage vows. Bucky would be well within his rights to make it a deal breaker.

“Hey,” Bucky said, leaning back in through the doorway. “Keep the passports with my picture. Just in case.”

“Okay.” Steve’s massive relief must have been obvious, because Bucky’s face softened and he came back into the room. Steve met him halfway for a slow, reassuring kiss.

“End of the line, remember? If we run, we run together, no matter which one of us they’re coming after,” Bucky said firmly.

“You think the chefs you’ve panned are going to be much of a threat?”

“Have you _seen_ a head chef breaking down a chicken? The only difference between chefs and assassins is whether the dress code is black or white tie.”

“Well, in that case,” Steve said solemnly, “I promise to keep you safe from any and all enraged chefs.”

“You’d better,” Bucky said, and smacked his ass before disengaging. “Clean this up and meet me in the kitchen, we’ve got bacon to fry.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] Boeuf Mystère](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16041080) by [quietnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietnight/pseuds/quietnight)




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